


life is thundering blissful towards death

by nogohello



Series: Character-centric TUA [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ben Hargreeves Deserves Better, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Ben Hargreeves-centric, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Good Sibling Ben Hargreeves, Introspection, One Shot, POV Alternating, POV Ben Hargreeves, Sad, Siblings, no beta we die like ben, sad but kind of peaceful ending imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogohello/pseuds/nogohello
Summary: “We make a good duo”, he tells Klaus, who smiles at him with an expression, agonized and forlorn. They laugh together, a guttural sound, both not knowing what else to do. Both knowing that there is nothing else to do.The bond between the two of them is the skeleton of a time never spent.//All his life, Ben is tortured by dreams, visions, memories foreshadowing his..., well, death. In an unending back and forth between past and present, his final, inescapable moment calls out to him at all times.//Vignettes of Ben's life told through his, as well as others' eyes--from his childhood right until the end.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Everyone, Ben Hargreeves & Grace Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves
Series: Character-centric TUA [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104689
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	life is thundering blissful towards death

**Author's Note:**

> Not me writing this thing when I should perhaps be focusing on my two ongoing, chaptered fics (or maybe prioritize online school hah)  
> I wanted to try sth new with this, and dearly hope somebody out there enjoys it. Feel free to comment!

_“I had the most vivid dream,_

_My feet had left the ground;_

_I was floating to heaven,_

_But I could only look down.”_

**_-6-_ **

****

* * *

_“Am I vital,_

_If my heart is idle?_

_Am I doomed?”_

_Doomed, M.S._

_„What does it mean to die?”_

The question is of the most innocent nature only a rosy-cheeked, small child can possess—youthfully green behind two attentive ears; freckled by imagination and sincere curiosity the size of the expanding night-sky.

Dr. Pogo looks at his student, his own widened eyes glowing like a sunstruck pair of amber stones as the light of the old-school projector hits his pupils. The unmoving image being cast on the board behind him flickers with the humming, steady sound of the overheating machine—buzzing like an impatient insect as it rests on a table with thin iron-legs and castors for feet.

“Would you repeat that, Number Six?”

The child in question clears his throat, blinking up under scarce, black bangs. He fiddles with his tiny, still uncoordinated hands.

“What-… What does it mean? _Dying_?”

They’re halfway through their lesson, halfway through a boring, attention-demanding presentation of a strict mission-plan they ought to follow once the day of the Umbrella Academy’s official debut actually arrives. Pogo had begged Sir Hargreeves to leave that topic for a later time, letting them continue on with considerably easy literature and mathematics, knowing it would all be too hard on a child’s mind, but the man had deemed them to be quite ready for the program, against Pogo’s wishes.

The ape glances at the projection behind him. It’s a list including a bunch of lousy rules for a potential hostage situation.

_“Do not under any circumstances let any of the innocent citizens die. This harms the public image and may cause media outrage_.”

He frowns, looking back at the boy, sitting behind the second to last desk in the row.

“Well, young man. I am sure you already know the difference between being alive and being dead…”, he begins carefully, stretching out his words as if dictating a long, winded phrase. Doing so, he eyes Number Six, studying his currently emotion-bare face.

The next moment, Number One chips in, his voice booming and confident as ever: “Six, it means we can’t let them be killed. Don’t act stupid, you should know that!”

The others boy’s brows furrow. “Yeah, but like… what do we do when we die?”

This time the fifth sibling raises his voice, a smug but also uninterested expression as he leans back dangerously far in his chair, twirling a pencil between his middle and index finger. “We stop living, simple as that. Stop breathing. Our heart ceases pumping the blood through our veins: we turn cold as the peas and carrots and broccoli Mom keeps in the freezer, and then we don’t thaw ever again.”

Number Six cringes at the blunt reply.

“Or w-we bleed out!”, Number Two throws in eagerly, “Have a limb cut o-off. Or be shot. Many ways to die. Imagine: your- your brain could explode!”

 _Goodness_ , Pogo thinks. It is eerily macabre to hear seven-year-olds talk about this, as if it were a simple matter of daily life.

He watches Number Six shrink in on himself, skin white as magnolia. His features gravitate towards each other, pursed lips pointing towards his slightly scrunched up nose.

“But I mean, _really_ dying. The exact point between being alive and being dead. Not the act of losing blood or whatever, not the seconds or minutes or hours before you pass—but the exact moment, that…- the exact moment the… _the light goes out!_ What happens there? What does it feel like? What do you think of?”

Pogo walks over, a weariness to his steps, and turns off the projector, deciding to cut the lesson short for now. “What sparks this interest, Number Six?”

Number Six stares up at him, eyes earnest and too warm in spirit for their own good.

“How else will I know when I’m dying?”

* * *

_“Underneath the waves,_

_Life is just a dream;_

_Which of us is dreaming?_

_And who will wake up screaming?”_

_Parachute, S.L._

Ben awakes with a shudder.

Well, he isn’t really sure if he awakes. But he jerks from one state of being to another, ripping his mind from bleached and blackened visions, bolting upright in his sheets.

He looks around, chest stuck in a spiraling storm of heaving.

His pajamas cling to his skin with sweat and fear; short around waist, wrists and ankles due to a recent pubescent growth-spurt he had hit with pride. He is still shorter than all of his brothers, but now only by so little. And reaching the books in the highest shelves of the library is at least a bit easier now.

It’s shortly after midnight, the clock on his bedstand tells him—tiny hands and numbers made to glow faintly in the dark. The moonlight caught from the starry round ivory plate hanging in the sky dimly filters through Ben’s blue curtains. From somewhere far he can hear the rustling of leaves and grass; a minimalistic orchestra of nature accompanied by the chirping of cicadas.

It is the clear sound of a late summer night.

Looking down at his arms, which lay bare in his lap—ink engraving into his paling skin, so deeply, he wonders if the horrid image of the Umbrella has wrapped around his veins irreversibly—Ben takes a shaky breath. _In and Out. Out and In._

He cannot go on like this forever, …can he?

The visions have been getting more frequent again. More vivid, more vibrant.

More confusing.

It is weird, roaming around a memory - _of-_ yourself, not - _by-_ yourself. As if his consciousness has found another body, digging through the back of another’s skull to see through their eyes; a parasite taking over its host with such indignity and carelessness. It fills him with shame.

Ben cannot remember ever asking Pogo that question. He cannot remember ever asking anyone about _death_.

He tries not to think about it, after all. Which is hard when there’s this nagging, unceasing sensation of an untiring film running through your brain: telling you of a remembrance that isn’t yours, making you recall events that might not have happened, ever. Showing him memories which he does not possess.

_“How else will I know when I’m dying?”_

Whyever would this young version of him ask that?

Ben sincerely hopes that when the moment comes, he won’t know. Won’t foresee, won’t be aware.

He hopes, almost prays, to utter his last words with mercy and contentment.

Fading off in sleep, drifting away. Death entering your system slowly, like poison of a terrifying kind, paralyzing all limbs and numbing your mind. But you don’t notice—you’re asleep. You don’t feel anything.

It’s peaceful.

You die _peacefully_.

With a roaring the beings under Ben’s skin stir and writhe impatiently, hissing chants and humming with low, inhuman voices. The boy shakes his head: he’d been thinking of things far too gruesome for his liking. Things he’d rather just keep behind a locked door in his sub-conscious. And if that thought keeps pawing at the jamb, he’ll let it till its claws wear frail and foul and brittle—all but a faint scratching of a nightmare, non-marring to his life.

After all, he shouldn’t go on like this.

He really shouldn’t.

Wiggling his legs out from under his blanket Ben hops from his bed, pulling the curtains aside to get a better glimpse at the full moon.

It’s a strange painting of a sky to examine, a strange time to be without rest. A lonely sight greeting a boy whose inner craves destruction and whose brain craves order. Walking dichotomy, he supposes.

(Which one day might just tear him apart.)

Stargazing as he is, Ben wonders if lunacy has caught him. An ephemeral ghost of insanity gripping his tongue and latching onto his eyelids. He feels his legs weaken and breath hitch. But if there’s one thing he does not long to do, it is to cry.

As often as he damns the other-worldly parts of himself, this human heart of his weighs him down the deepest, into this endless sea of blue.

(What will happen when his feet touch the bottom of this ocean?

He won’t know till it happens.)

The boy feels a chill creep down his back.

Maybe Klaus—the family insomniac, as one might say—is still awake. Ben decides to check. If not, he’ll just bury his face in his pillow till the morning bird beckons.

* * *

_“And one day we will die,_

_And our ashes will fly,_

_From the Aeroplane over the Sea._

_But for now, we are young:_

_Let us lay in the sun,_

_And count every beautiful thing we can see.”_

_In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, NMH._

Vanya loves her siblings. She really does.

And when she doesn’t, she really wants to.

But sometimes it is hard to even look at them. To bear being in the same room as them. To be family.

She’s surprised they’ve even decided to invite her to tag along to Griddy’s. Normally they have no trouble excluding her from… everything.

But this time they asked. This time they came to her. This time they had cared.

Sweet, in itself, but the trip is starting to have a bitter aftertaste as they all talk over her; boasting and bragging about missions and whether Dad was proud of their latest magazine interview—each one of them seemingly crowning themselves as the public’s favorite. She hasn’t been able to get out a single word the past half-hour, and nobody bothers to include her in the conversation—neither is there space for her to ever forcibly insert herself in it.

It is not a new thing. Not at all.

One may suppose it’s on her for getting her hopes up every single time.

Why should they even bother talking to ordinary, little Vanya? Why should they pay any attention to her, the unimportant one?

It’s ridiculous. Pathetic. Pitiable.

Gnawing at her doughnut with a lack of appetite, she investigates the bland frosting scraped off by her front teeth with an idle tongue. It tastes of nothing, she supposes.

It’s always nothing and nowhere and nobody and never.

Vanya ought to know better than expect anything else. She’s growing more and more sick of it.

“I’ll get some fresh air”, she huffs out of the blue, hurrying from their booth to the door. They don’t seem to notice any of it, bantering on merrily. Perhaps they’ll even eat the last of her doughnuts.

It’s fine.

She’s no stranger to being alone, in the end. To being silent.

Vanya’s prepared to be standing out in front of the building, pacing around by herself until her siblings are done and ready to head back to the mansion.

But right after the heavy door falls closed behind her, it opens again with a small jingle and somebody’s footsteps. Whirling around in surprise, strands of hair falling in her face with the movement, Vanya turns to see who it is.

Of course it is Ben. Of course.

Next to Five he is the only one left in the house whom she feels she can trust.

_Five, Six, Seven. Seven, Six, Five._

“Need some fresh air, too?”, she sighs, trying to appear blandly normal, which is usually her forte.

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off her. “You alright, V?”

Vanya barks in laughter, the sound coming out too frustrated and choked up, and plummets down on the sidewalk: uncaring of appearing ladylike and getting dirt on her skirt as she sits. In this moment she wishes for nothing more than to yank that stupid uniform off her body.

It shouldn’t be hers anyway.

“Why wouldn’t I be alright, huh? Whatever reason could I have? _Me_ , Number Seven?”, she spits, venom in her voice, but not directed at him.

Ben squats down next to her, wrapping his arms around himself as a breeze passes by. He might also be making sure to block off the portal embedded in his stomach; she doesn’t know.

“You know, the missions are stupid. They really are. Stupid and useless and scary. The others make them out to be this… glorious way to showcase our powers and unity as a team—which, by the way, does not exist. Neither inside nor outside the Academy—and it sucks. If I could, I’d never do any of those missions ever again.”

Vanya clenches her fists, digging her nails into her palm, hoping to draw blood. “Even Five’s in there, blabbering about it as if he were a higher being of some sort. Better than the rest. Better than me.”

Ben chuckles—a kind of sadness still bleeding through. “Even good ol’ Number Five can be an idiot. We all can be, don’t you think? We all have our own ugliness.”

That moment, Vanya looks at her brother. The streetlamp illuminates his face, the weak smile. She can see he’s tired, dark circles spreading under his eyes and a heaviness to every fluttering eyelash, but most of all he looks calm. Almost out of this melancholy world.

Leaning against his shoulder, she immediately feels a bit better than before, some of that bitterness vanishing with the current.

It might be his specialty in a way.

Don’t get her wrong: Ben could be an asshole, as well. It’s just a Hargreeves trait. Even if his mean and selfish and cold side is deeply buried beneath his usually caring and soothing presence, it is there. It will always be there.

There’s no such thing as angels, especially not in her life.

But if there’s one thing Vanya can count on, it is for him to be able to tell her a lot by saying merely a few words, if not nothing.

As wordless as they sit there, for an endless while, it speaks volumes.

“Do you ever…”, she murmurs against the fabric of his blazer, “Do you ever think about leaving, Ben?”

The question hangs in the air for a while.

Allison and Klaus were the first of them to mention moving out once they’re eighteen at latest, but recently Diego and Five have joined in on the idea as well. Being honest to herself, Vanya finds she’s infatuated by the concept, too. Admittedly, she had always thought she’d be leaving once she’s grown—unlike the others she has no place in the mansion, after all. There’s never been the need nor want for her to stay.

Luther, ever the Academy’s Number One, has been the only one passionately advising to continue working under their Dad’s orders. Following him with every step. Going on missions every other night. Training whenever the time is available.

And Ben?

He’d never said anything. Not a single word on it.

There are still a few years for them to decide, in the end. But curiosity, the undying need to know, clutches onto Vanya’s chest with glue on its icy palms, as she waits for his reply.

“What exactly do you mean?”, he rasps finally, not meeting her inquiring eyes.

They both know the question is in vain. He knows exactly what she means.

“Moving out”, she answers, regardless, “You know? Like… Allison’s been dreaming of L.A. and Five wants to look into some universities. Soon we’ll be grown up and then we’re free to just be out there. Out and about.” While speaking, Vanya fumbles with her own sleeves.

Ben lifts his hand, almost as if to touch an invisible string in the air. A second later, he bats at nothing and puts it down again.

“No”, he whispers.

She looks at him, confusion drawing into her cheeks. “What? ‘ _No, you won’t leave’_?”

He whips his head towards her the next moment, as if her moving lips had ignited a fire, sharp eyes widened manically as something glazes over them. There’s a shiver in his tone and exhaustion twitching in his lips, losing color with the cold.

“Oh, I will leave. For sure. I have to.”

A few seconds of silence pass.

“Then ‘ _no’_ what? No to what, Ben?”

Her brother stands up without warning, pulling her with him. As his grip tightens around her shoulders, she wonders when he had gotten so strong. In her eyes, he’d always be the gentle, clumsy sibling.

“ _No_ to the rest. I won’t grow up. I won’t be out and about. None of that.”

She flinches as his hands tighten around her even further—a pinching that will not wake her from any dream. Vanya can’t help but shriek. As Ben realizes what he’s doing he steps back, a hurt expression on his face as hers fills with horror of all things, and he clutches his stomach—this time evidently.

The boy whispers something under his breath, which she cannot make out.

“What’s going on here, guys?”

It’s Five’s voice, steeped in both concern and suspicion, as well as nonchalance (which only he can achieve). He is standing by the door all of a sudden, the others right beside him.

Ben looks at them, bending over slightly as if troubled by bellyache. He’s out of breath suddenly, for no reason, and Vanya fears he might double over.

“I’ll leave someday”, he cries out in a whimper at their clueless faces.

Luther frowns, stepping towards the other boy with his shoulders pulled back and a stance that is a blatant, spineless mimicry of their father. “But Ben, you can’t just do that! You don’t want that for yourself, believe me!”

Their brother, the sixth Hargreeves child, closes his eyes, nostrils flaring up. He blinks up at Vanya again.

“It’s not like that. I’ll leave and then that’s it.”

Luther grits his teeth, jaw tensing. “Where would you even go? You’ll leave and then where will you be?”

Vanya looks up at Ben. She wants to know what expression he’s carrying, but this time the streetlights don’t streak his face. He’s standing in the dark.

“I’ll leave and then I’ll be gone.”, he whispers.

Vanya watches as he buckles over.

* * *

_“Who am I to say,_

_What any of this means?_

_—I have been sleepwalking,_

_Since I was fourteen.”_

_Nine, SAL._

Ben snaps back to the present.

He is playing around with the mashed potatoes on his plate, swinging his fork around, knowing the disapproving eye of Reginald Hargreeves is drilling a hole in the middle of his forehead. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Grace moves around the room in swift, calculated steps: humming very softly as she takes the empty plates of some of his siblings and asks about needed refills or second portions.

Ben doesn’t feel hungry. Not like that, not for food. No thirst he could so easily quench with a gulp of cold water or unsweetened juice. His body is craving _something_ , an echo ringing out from between his ribs. But Ben knows he cannot give in to that.

Frantically, he scans across the room, trying to make out how long he had been tangled in the mess of his thoughts.

It had been some time since he had last… lost himself like that.

The memory still flickers in the corners of his eyes. Vanya’s memory. He wonders if she really recalls it like that or if he is hopelessly running down the path of unfolding madness.

Ben can actually remember that night at Griddy’s. Of course, he can. It had only been a couple of months ago. He knows it happened; he knows it’s not completely irreal.

They snuck out; they got doughnuts; they started bickering (or rather, roughly fighting) over missions and Dad and… Vanya went outside, fed up.

He followed her. He did.

And then what?

What happened then?

What did he do? What did he say?

There’s a pounding sensation in his ears as Ben reaches to rub his temples. He carefully lets his eyes wander to his side, from his sixth place in the row to the seventh next to him.

Vanya does not meet his timid stare; she’s picking at the last remnants of her vegetables. Tracing the bridge of her nose and the red of her cheeks within his mind, Ben wonders how often he’ll get to see his sister like that again. They are sixteen now, towering above the old phantom of belonging they had to this place.

She might leave soon.

Pack her things and just go, her precious violin in tow and the wind in her back.

She’ll leave him. She can leave them anytime.

(Or maybe he’ll leave before her.)

Gulping, Ben takes his eyes off of her.

He shovels some of his food in his mouth, forcing himself to chew and swallow to get it down as quick as possible. Fighting his churning guts and rebelling senses as his tongue presses against the front of his tingling palate, suppressing a gag as he continues to gulf it down with a burning heat in his throat.

Ben’s body is a portal, a door.

And there’s a knocking, a violent one, coming from the inside.

(And it’s getting louder, and louder, and louder, and _louder_ ……)

“Whoa there! Dude, slow down. We don’t want you barfin’ on this fine wooden floor of ours-“, Klaus laughs, sounding weirdly like a hiccup.

Their father glares him down. “No talking during dinner. And good for you, Number Six, to finally catch up. I do not tolerate spacing out by this table, nor anywhere really. You know the consequences of not finishing your meal, as well as the punishments for failing to pay attention. Do you not?”

Ben nods.

That’s the only way to respond to this man. Don’t talk, don’t smile, don’t gesticulate. Just nod. It’s all you can do.

He can finish his meal just fine. Yes, he can.

This time it is Vanya’s turn to stare at Ben, never catching the other’s eye. He feels as though if he’d glimpse at her, a part of him would shatter to pieces. Leaving a gaping hole etched in his body, something dreadful oozing out.

No, Ben will just eat.

\----

(And if he does later have to force the contents of his stomach back out, kneeling over the toilet with a green-ish tinge to his face, that is only Ben’s business. If he feels The Horrors grow stronger with every second they rage on and hammer against the portal-entrance, he’s going to keep that to himself.

If he loses any sense of time in that bathroom, mind blinking between memories and present and whispers from another dimension, that just happens. He walks back to his room, finding the lights everywhere else have already gone out.)

* * *

_“Brother, you don’t need to turn me away;_

_I was waiting down at the ancient gate._

_You go,_

_Wherever you go today.”_

_Mykonos, F.F._

Five is stuck.

His thoughts are racing ahead and behind and above and below and wherever he looks, it’s numbers, variables, possibilities and most of all dead-ends.

He’s stuck and he cannot blink away. Stuck with no option out. Stuck with no-one to help.

And he hates it; despair latching onto him.

Sprinting up the stairs, with a jump of sizzling blue in the midst of it, after another dispute with Dad about his prohibition from time-travelling—claiming he is not prepared when Five has shown the best results out of his siblings and has been working his goddamn ass off during the futile training he has already mastered—the boy curses to himself as he looks around and intuitively blinks from the hallway out on the mansion’s fire-escape.

This is just _aggravating_.

He is thirteen now. Which basically means thirteen years of Reginald’s lessons and his useless _torturing_ already behind him.

Why should he not be able to jump through time?

 _‘Reappearing as an acorn’_ or whatever; it’s bullshit. It’s complete and utter bullshit.

Five isn’t that unskilled, is he? He’s not an idiot.

Look at him: having blinked right at the spot on the rusty staircase where he had meant to end. Just a bit to the side and he’d have jumped onto thin air: probably leaving him to hit the ground with a nice crashing sound as he fractures his ribs, breaks an arm and gets himself a concussion.

But no, Five works with precision. Perfection. Predicting every move that he needs to make to proceed flawlessly. He is right where he wanted to be.

And he’s stuck.

Stuck with the knowledge that he _could_ blink through time. With the knowledge that his abilities are not being strengthened to their full extent.

Frustrated and furious, Five paces on the small platform he is on, muttering of calculations which engrave into his brain millisecond by millisecond.

Behind him, a window is pushed open; Ben peeking out with a raised brow.

“What are you doing out here?”

Five glances inside, at the bed his brother is kneeling on. “You’re in Vanya’s room.”

Ben blinks at him, blank stare. “I know that. I was looking for her to give back a book I borrowed, but I think she’s helping with Diego’s target training. They just started.”

Five winces, hearing that. They’ve all had their turns at having Diego throw knives in their direction while their father yells in the back, but Vanya has been getting picked out the most lately. She is the least busy, that’s why.

“Wanna sit out here with me?”, he quietly suggests, looking at his brother. The sibling next in line. He’s not even sure where the question comes from.

Ben nods, smiling. He climbs out the window, hitting his head several times on both frame and pane, but laughing it off.

“Come on”, Five teases, “You’re the smallest next to Vanya and you still can’t squeeze yourself out of there? Impressive work, Number Six. Truly.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “I guess Dad failed to put that in our mission preparations.”

“Well now you know how it works”, Five hums, sitting down and patting the space next to him, “Might save your life one day, you never know.”

The look Ben gives him at that is hard to decipher, which normally would serve as no problem to Five, but it disappears too quickly for him to even attempt to start to pick it apart. Perhaps it wasn’t even anything but an illusion of lighting. A shadow running over the lines of eyes, mouth and nose—holding onto nothing with its impalpable hands, slipping away quietly and leaving no trace.

At least no visible one.

Because only a second after, the smaller boy appears just as bright and shy as he always does.

“So, now’s the moment where you answer my question, Five. Don’t think I’m not immune to your tactics of avoidance. _The time has come_.”

The last part of the statement is added overly dramatically; a light-hearted, stupid joke.

“The _time_ , huh? That’s exactly the problem, actually”, Five grumbles.

“Yeah?”

Five pinches the bridge of his noise; noticing quite the contrast between his cold fingertips and hot head.

“Dad still won’t let me time-travel, you see. And I… I just don’t get it! I’m ready, I swear. I know what to do and I _can_ do it.” He scoffs, “But the old man thinks I’m nothing but an arrogant teen, getting ahead of myself. God, it makes me so angry-“

Ben puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing very lightly with the awareness that Five normally pulls away from any touch.

“I don’t think it’s all about that. I mean—who knows what Dad is really thinking, like… _ever_. But from where I stand it looks less like this is about your capabilities or talent or maturity; it’s not whether you can blink to the future. Maybe it’s more about whether you’ll come back and… if you’ll come back as the same person.”

Ben’s voice is hushed and careful in every syllable. It moves like a prowling tiger through the thicket of the conversation. He pulls his hand back to his side.

“Or at least that’s what Vanya and I worry about, Five. Your safety.”

Five groans, running his slender fingers through his hair. “I don’t need you guys to baby me! I don’t need your worries and that. If you believed I could do it, there’d be no need for your useless concern.”

Ben looks away.

A plane flies above their heads, far up between the mushed, felten clouds. It disappears in the white and reappears in the blue again. Five’s gaze trails with it as it fades into the distance; he tries to keep his anger down, creeping up on him with heat.

He does not want to argue with Ben.

“We do believe in you, Five. But you can’t expect us to just let you leave with the risk of no return! Just because I put my faith in your ability, does not mean I’m fine with the idea of you being gone when you could be _here_.”

“What if that’s not the case? What if I jump, have a cool day in the future and then immediately get back? You wouldn’t even notice my absence, because it’d be a mere matter of seconds for you!”

Ben rubs a hand across his face, frowning. “Do you not think of any of us? What if it _is_ the case, huh? What do we do then? Then it’s One to Seven, but only six people-“

“And? There's no use in that ranking anyway…”, Five hisses.

The implied meaning behind their line-up is always a touchy subject between the Hargreeves children; every single one of them secretly aspiring to be up to their Father’s standards. Dad’s favorite.

Ben sighs. “I can agree with you on that, but… _Five_. If one of us is missing, there’s no balance. You take one piece away and it all falls apart. This whole bubble we exist in right now, it bursts.”

There is a pained huskiness Five believes to hear in his brother’s words.

“So you want us to stay together forever? Play pretend as a family? I don’t think it works like that. At least… at least not anymore.”

He looks at his sibling, who is not really his sibling. The back and forth of their talk seems to make the other age with tiredness; features darkening against pallid skin. Five only now notices that Ben is running a palm along the front of his shirt. He wonders if a tentacle is threatening to dig its way out from under it.

“I want us to stay together as long as we can. That isn’t much, but it’s the most.”

The words are uttered like a vow.

Five eyes the teenager next to him further. He is devoid of speech.

“You have a choice, Five. You have the choice to stay. Use it, okay? Promise me you’ll use it.”

“But you can’t force me to rot in this hellhole of a place, I-“

“Just as long as I’m here. Promise me that.”

Ben looks oddly serious, as if it were a matter of life and death. For what feels like an eternity, Five just gawks at him.

“You’re… you’re acting weird. _Confused_.”, he whispers. His brother smiles at him with sadness clear as day.

“There’ll be a point at which it’ll all break apart anyway. Inevitably. But until then, we need to stick together.”

Five does not know how to react, a rare turn of events for him, so he elbows Ben, trying to lighten the mood again. “Which one of us is the time-traveler now? Dude, you’re talking as if you’re a prophet.”

Ben shakes his head, suddenly yawning, though it is only early in the afternoon. “I’m tired, I guess. I get weird when I’m tired.” Then he grins. “If you do end up being a proficient time-blinking master one day, come back here and let me travel with you.”

Five quirks up an eyebrow, smirking. “Not so scared of the consequences now, hm? You’ve gotta admit that the sole notion of it is awfully exciting.”

“Nerd.”

Number Five snickers. “Takes one to know one.”

Ben gets up, turning back to the window he climbed out from. “I guess… I’d just love to see a bit of the future, ‘s all. All of you as grumpy adults, just picture that! That’d be awesome to witness—I won’t live to see it, after all. I won’t get to talk to your grown selves.”

The sky darkens at that; a huge cloud covering the sun from sharing its blissful rays. Five squints below at the ground, again thinking of a body bursting down on the pavement with forceful impact.

Except this time, it isn’t his.

He does not turn to watch Ben struggle back inside Vanya’s room.

“I’ll remember that”, he quietly speaks out onto the wind, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

* * *

_“Though my wrists and my waist,_

_Seemed so easy to break;_

_Still, my dear, I would’ve walked you,_

_To the edge of the water.”_

_Sawdust & Diamonds, J.N._

“And so I… _hey_ \- hey, are you even listening to me?”

Ben’s head shoots up, having prior leaned against the wall. It takes him a while to realize where he is—years away from that conversation on the staircase already. He straightens his back, scooching forward to the edge of his seat, placed where the high-reaching walls cave into a corner. Next to him, extravagantly sprawled out across one of their private library’s tables, Klaus pouts, theatrically placing a hand on his chest.

“Don’t you dare tell me you fell asleep in the middle of my grand story!”

He puts on an extra-dramatic, high-pitched falsetto voice.

“Fine. I won’t tell you that, then.”, Ben replies smugly, trying to discreetly massage the back of his head. He does not know whether it aches from the harsh pillow of a wall he had used or from drifting off too far in his sub-conscious, once again.

Klaus clicks his tongue, twirling the pink feathery boa, which he had stolen from Allison, around. “Dummy. That’s the second time you’ve disappeared inside the maze of your head this week, Benny-boy. You’re close to being a worse listener than I am, and that says _a lot_. I, at least, have the excuse of literal wailing ghosts around me 24/7, though. What’s yours?”

Ben absently scratches his cheek in thought.

Excuses, huh? He guesses he could come up with some of those.

… Flashbacks? Well, no. That’s not it.

Hallucinations? Not it, either.

Memories that aren’t yours, of moments that you were part of but cannot clearly remember? Sharp, lucid visions that feel like epiphanies? A migraine of colors, telling a story so horrifying and revealing, yet leading nowhere? _Yes_. That’s exactly it.

But he can’t say that, can he?

He can’t; although Ben trusts Klaus to be one of the most, if not _the_ most, understanding of all of his siblings, when it comes to such abstract, unbelievable matters.

But what’s he supposed to say to him? What is he to do?

Klaus claps his hands in his direction.

“Damn, Bentacles. Talk to your big bro!”

Ben has to snort. Sometimes Klaus’ stupidity can really be a delight; it almost makes up for the annoying nicknames.

“We’re the exact same age, genius.”, Ben counters.

“Not in spirit, baby sib’. You know, they call me somewhat ‘ _wise beyond my years’_ and all. I’ve got a big brain, man. Big brain, old soul—you name it. And I’m tall, too. And lanky. They say that’s the epitome of male beauty nowadays.”

Ben crosses his legs, slouching in his chair. “Oh yeah? Who’s ‘ _they’_?”

Klaus gives him a shouldered shrug. “Everybody, _duh_. Dead and alive, baby. I’m everyone’s favorite medium.”

Walking over just to lovingly punch his brother in the biceps, Ben grins.

“You smell, man. _Reek_. You on something?”

He lifts himself up on the table as well, one arm reaching back to support his weight as he leans onto it, while the other arm tugs itself around his belly.

Klaus moans, reaching to slap Ben lightly, missing him anyway. “I wish I was. _Shit_. But _rumour_ has it that there’s a mission today or tomorrow and… I dunno. I feel like I should stay clean for that. Just a while.”

“Not that I dislike that; but why? The past few missions you were high off your ass. We had to drag you back to the van—you were out of it!”

“What am I supposed to say?”, Klaus drawls, “I am a changed man. And a man of surprises.”

Ben only now takes a closer look at his brother, examining the abnormally grey and dry skin under his eyes, the knots in his untamed curls, the bits of crusted blood on his chapped lips. He’s looked better, to say it nicely. His boney and constantly shaking frame lacks life—a cruel comparison for a boy doomed to see gory ghosts for the rest of his days, from birth till-…

Above, the library lights flicker.

The Horrors are moving under their barrier. Like a baseball-bat to the gut, Ben bends over, feeling every tentacle draw forward. They’re banging against the gates, writing on the inside of the vessel that is Ben’s body with blood and tar—letters of a Jovian-akin language. Cryptic in wording, but straight to the point in meaning.

They’re hungry. They’re starving.

They’re angry. They’re restless.

They want _out_.

 _Out, out, out_ and never go back in again.

They want freedom.

And Ben—Ben, he understands. He… he wants freedom, too. Cut ties to this existence of painful uncertainty and inconsistence of presence in one lane—he keeps slipping from one moment to another, vastly different points in life. Drifting. Fading. Forgetting and remembering and remembering and forgetting, and-…

“Klaus?”

“Hm?”

“Do all people turn into ghosts eventually? Or is there, like… a selection for that?”

Klaus forces himself up, both boys now sitting side by side on the table.

“Yeah. There’s this huge contest for all the dead and the top three get to spend the rest of their time in the beautiful afterlife that is being on earth while nobody can hear you—except the cursed human Ouija-board that I am, of course—and you’re invisible and intangible and you lose your mind, if you haven’t already; and so the rules to winning that splendid prize are-“

Ben cuts his rambling off, impatiently. “ _Please_ , Klaus.”

The other boy wraps one arm around his shoulders, taking a deep breath.

“Okay, here’s the thing—I’m not sure. I don’t think so, actually. Not all become ghosts. Some of them… they, they seem to have a reason to stay. You know, unfinished business or the likes. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Ben tries to not let his face twist with frustration. He can feel the beings under his skin rage on excitedly as Klaus scooches even closer. Thus, he decides to now wrap both arms around his stomach, hoping Klaus won’t notice—or at least have the audacity to not comment on it.

“So, if one of us dies, it’s possible they can still be around? You could see them, then?”

Klaus purses his lips. “Well I sure hope that won’t happen, ‘cause it’d be annoying as frick; but if we’re talking in hypothesis now, then yeah. They could still hang out here.”

“And then they can also go to heaven at some point? Or… whatever’s out there?”

Ben grimaces as his own voice cracks.

“I guess, dude. Don’t ask me such things when I’m sober though. ‘M not in the mood for tha’, if you get what I mean. Not really a fan of moping around, binging on an existential crisis. There’s better things to consume—or let yourself be consumed by.”

Klaus makes it sound casual, unemotional— _Klaus-ish_ —but Ben can tell he is finding the topic too hard to get through any further.

There is a sense of agreement floating around them anyway; a sense of mutual recognition as they silently acknowledge the unspoken.

Ben feels his forehead cover itself in cold sweat, sudden discomfort in his clothes—the fabric seems tight around his torso, as if grating against blistered patches of skin.

The rumbling inside of him is all he can hear, but he can feel his lips form words.

“We make a good duo”, he tells Klaus, who smiles at him with an expression, agonized and forlorn. They laugh together, a guttural sound, both not knowing what else to do. Both knowing that there is nothing else to do.

The bond between the two of them is the skeleton of a time never spent.

* * *

_“Oh Mother,_

_I can feel the soil falling over my head,_

_And as I climb into an empty bed…_

_Oh well. Enough said._

_I know it’s over—still I cling.”_

_I Know It’s Over, T.S._

Grace strokes her little boy’s sweet head, wiping a bit at his tear-stained cheeks as he melts into her touch. He feels warm against the artificial outer layer of her body.

She can hear her own limbs click and rattle very quietly, likely only for her to perceive, when she bows down a bit.

“It’s okay, Number Six. Brave boy, it’s over.”

He still does not cease shaking, shoulders in a constant wobble of up and down—his small fists tense against the mattress of the examination bed, knuckles whitening. There’s still red around his nails and the creases between his fingers.

A small sob escapes his lips.

“Oh dear, are you still frightened?”, the woman chirps, now rubbing circles along his back. She glances towards the trash can in the back of the room. “Do you feel you will be sick again? Shall I fetch the bucket for you?”

The boy shakes his head, making a soft but defiant noise. His line of sight avoids her silhouette determinedly.

Something flashes across the android’s vision. She is reminded to lead Number Six back to the training rooms very soon. Sir Reginald does not tolerate any slacking off, after all, no matter which incident occurs.

Thus, Grace crouches down, now below the eye-level of the child, beaming up at him. “You are alright, darling. You’re doing very well.” She looks to the door of the infirmary and then back at him. “In a few minutes you are expected down in the training wing again, okay? Daily exercises for strong, big boys.”

She gifts him her brightest, pearly smile.

He does not return her grand, joyful gestures. However, Grace does not mind. But she is aware it is not a good sign. A sort of misbehavior, in a way.

Number Six sighs, choked up. “I don’t wanna get hurt again, Mom.” He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, pulling to look at the dried, tiny speckles of crimson that have seeped into it, which Grace will have to get rid of later. “And I don’t wanna hurt others. I don’t care if it’s just rats or birds, or…” He trails off.

Gently, Grace takes his hands in hers, satisfied as he does not recoil. The boy’s face showcases a wide range of emotions, she can gather—fear, sadness, anger, exhaustion, disgust. She would make him a nice, warm beverage if she had the time, but Sir Reginald does not wait. And she cannot act against his rules, against her programming, against her nature.

She is to care for and protect the children, nurture them and be a figure of comfort next to his authority. But above the children there always is her creator—above her act of being a nanny, or even mother, she is his worker and assistant.

Grace stands up again, fingers curling back from being intertwined with his.

“Come now, Number Six. I know you do not want it—but it is not that bad. You’ll see for yourself in time. Do not be afraid.”

She encouragingly motions for him to get on his feet and walk with her, but Number Six just sacks forward the slightest, growing even smaller, and tears up again.

This is not good.

There is a sensation of inaudible ticking flowing through Grace’s wires. Time’s running. She is expected to succeed at her job, no matter what.

Grace cannot grow impatient, but she can feel a sense of dreading hurry. Sir Reginald’s displeasure and disappointment sink into the back of her non-human mind like a pair of fangs.

She needs to get the boy to his training.

“I’ll walk with you, sweetheart”, she reminds, “It’ll be over before you know it.”

( _It’ll be over before you know it_. The words underline and reverse in her coding.)

Number Six finally lifts his head; wet eyes brimming with salty sorrow, jumping up to meet hers.

“I don’t want to!”

The child does not shout.

He does not sound rebellious. Not like Number Five when being told to stay in one place or Number Two when Pogo is armed with a syringe. He is not like any of his siblings.

Number Six sounds devastated.

“Mom, I don’t want to! Please! Don’t make me go there.”

Grace is unsure what to say—helplessly trying to determine what situation she has found herself in. Only sure she has no other choice but make him go. They both know that if he does not move, it’ll be a declaration for punishment by his father. She will have to report the boy’s unwillingness, which will not result in anything nice.

“Number Six-“, she begins, taking a split second to word out the rest, “You are going to be just fine! The sooner we get there, the sooner you can leave.”

“I don’t want to _leave_ …”, he interrupts quietly. She continues talking.

“Your father is great man—his efforts are solely made to help you children. The training is very, very important, okay? Do you understand?”

She attempts to sound both caring and demanding.

Hesitatingly, the boy nods.

“All you need to do is use your powers. To fight for the Academy and to be able to defend yourself. And once you know how to control them, you will not have to be in the infirmary afterwards. Then you won’t get hurt again, is that not great? I’m sure you’d like that.”

Again, he moves his head up and down—though the despair on his face is quite evident. He reaches to wipe both tears and snot with his sleeve: Grace notes to wash the blazer as well, right after he is done with his lessons.

“But I don’t want to unleash _them_.”, he sniffs. Still, to Grace’s delight, he does get up and walks over to the door. “I don’t want to let them out.”

His speech is muffled by a sulk.

As his small hand searches for hers, she grips it softly.

“There’s no need to be scared of them. You are going to be just fine.”, she repeats.

The boy’s eyebrows fold together. “They do not scare me, really. They’re part of me, I think.”, he carefully explains, clearly thinking hard. “But-“

He stops unexpectedly, clutching at his belly.

“Mom, I don’t want this.”

Grace hums. There’s a spark in her, knowing that there’s something she does not know. Knowing she cannot help him—although helping is her sole purpose. What a funny, frightening thing.

Number Six presses his eyes closed for a second, sucking in a deep breath through his teeth.

“Soon I’ll let them out and they’ll never go in again. Never, Mom. Then it’s over.”

Grace can feel her circuitry buzz, can feel her facial expression loosen with a lack of emotions she can portray and mimic for him. What is there for her to possibly say? There is no predictable outcome to this interaction; there is nothing she’s been told to feel at such a moment.

Now it is actually him who tugs at her arm and makes the first steps to walk to the training rooms.

“Whatever happens, I can fix you”, Grace speaks as they pass through the halls, feeling odd as her voice sounds much too cheery to herself. “If you’re hurt, I’ll make sure you heal.”

As she stares at the back of his head, some black strands of hair flopping around as he takes step after step towards his final destination, she imagines her insides rust—screws shriveling up with a red and brown film as her inner, dusty framework falls apart with the visceral sensation of pain she cannot comprehend.

Grace cannot really lie.

At times in which her words are still untrue, it is only because she believes them to be right.

Whoever would tell a mother she is fated to lose her son?

Whoever would take him from her?

* * *

_“While down in the lowlands,_

_The crops are all coming—_

_We have everything._

_Life is thundering blissful towards death,_

_In a stampede,_

_Of his fumbling green gentleness.”_

_Only Skin, J.N._

It smells of blood.

That’s the first thing Ben registers as his senses come back to him. _It smells of blood_. And he wonders whose it is.

The Horrors wonder, too. But with much different intentions than his. They are ecstatic at the scent; it feels as though they are performing a victorious dance beneath his flesh and bones, in expectation to soon devour prey.

Ben gulps as the back of his throat stings with acid.

“For fuck’s sake! Would you stop gaping like a goldfish and focus?!”

Only now does he realize that Five is pulling at his arm, trying to yank him around the corner of a wall. They are currently hiding, but Ben has trouble remembering from who. The only thing left in his thoughts is that they are on another mission.

Somewhere, somebody screams.

But who? Who is it?

What is happening?

Ben’s head feels as if it is being pierced by millions of tiny needles, thin and sharp as they are pushed in deeper and deeper into his brain. Who is pushing? Why is this happening?

Another scream.

“ _Shit_ , Allison.”, Five curses, violently dragging Ben with him, a tremble in his hand.

Steadily, the fog inside Ben’s mind dissolves—consciousness crystalizing with the sight of his other siblings.

Allison is being held at gunpoint by a tall, heavily armed stranger—a gruff look with a shabby beard covering his jaw. He is standing just too far away from her for her to rumour him, and might pull the trigger right in the moment she even attempts to utter a word anyway. The girl is bleeding out of her normally so delicate-looking snub-nose, now bruised in blue and red.

Farther back is Luther, wrestling with three of the other skilled, ruthless men— _bank-robbers_ , Ben now finally recalls—at once. He is clearly struggling; losing his breath as he groans through burgundy-tinged spit and sweat and yelps at every kick and punch. They could shoot him any second—he might be resistant, but still not bullet-proof—but it looks like they’re having their fun beating him up.

And then there’s Klaus and Diego in another corner, covering each other’s blind-spots as they cower in the shadows: both looking as alright as they can currently be, under their scratches and sore spots; but unsuccessfully searching for a way to help the others and end the damned mission. Number Two is equipped with knives over knives, as always, though from what it looks like, there is only a small percentage of them left, while Klaus seems to have snatched a taser from somewhere. The thing looks misplaced in his hand, but he holds it up threateningly regardless.

Ben wants to slap himself.

This is _not_ good. Obviously.

This is very, very bad.

They have had hard missions before. Risky ones, long ones, loud ones, complicated ones.

But every single time their most important goal was only to please their Dad, not to hold onto mere survival. ‘ _Make Reginald Hargreeves proud’_ —that’s their shared motto, even if denied by all six members (or seven, unofficially). Make him proud and obey the rules; which means: _do not under any circumstances let anyone die_. But also: _never fail at a mission._

But now there’s too many, too much, too quickly. Too many robbers with weapons crowding them. Too many disadvantages on their side. They hadn’t planned this through.

Ben looks at Five, hoping to see his sibling’s usual sly smirk and arrogant boredom—but instead, Five looks _afraid_. He looks as afraid as a child with no-one to protect him.

Well, that’s what they all are here, right?

They’re just children.

“What will we do?”, Ben whispers to his brother, not stopping his eyes from scanning across the room over and over again.

Five hisses back at him: “I don’t know, okay?! Let me think.” He is pressing his left hand against a wound at his side— _which, hell, Ben hadn’t even noticed at first—_ and shifting from one foot to the other nervously. “I might be fast enough to jump Allison out of there, but I’m not entirely sure if I’ll succeed with this fucking huge scrape I’ve got here. If we try to disarm this guy, the others might just fire instead.”

The boy pulls back his hand now, covered in sticky blood. He looks very faint.

Ben curls in on himself as his stomach upends and The Horrors screech inside. It stinks of goddamn blood—all of their blood. Blood from every single one of them, everywhere. And the beings inside move, as if to lick their teeth, dripping with saliva of their starving.

“How about surrendering then? We let them rob the bank and go home safe.”, he shyly suggests, with no other ideas left, arms around his upper body as if tying a noose around his diaphragm.

Five snarls. “What are you? A three-year-old?! That’s not an option, idiot.” He sighs, sounding sore as he slurs his speech. “We’d go home safe and then get killed by Dad himself.”

They have no hopes left. No other pathways to navigate through.

Ben lifts his arms—slowly, as if peeling away two thick layers—and buries his face in his hands. He can feel his own tears soak his palms.

… That metaphorical noose of his still tightens.

“What if-… What if we sign to Klaus and Diego to get ready to attack? You go and take Allison’s guy and I—I let The Horrors do the rest.”

He looks at Five, watches his eyes widen as realization dawns on him.

“Y-yes, but-“, Five glimpses at their two mentioned brothers at the other side of the room and then turns back to him, “You sure? You’ve said you want _that_ to only ever be our last resort…”

Ben shrugs, as if their exchange were but casual small-talk. “It _is_ our last resort.”

“But you normally don’t do it with all of us in the room. We’d be in really close range now.”

“Five, I’ll make sure you’re all safe, I swear.”, Ben answers, certainty clear in his words, “I’ll make sure _they_ only hurt the enemy. And you guys get out of here as quick as possible, okay? Whatever…”

He hesitates, but then nods to himself.

“Whatever happens: you guys get out of here.”

Five mutters another curse under his breath, but decides to trust him. There’s nothing else for them to do. Together they manage to discreetly catch Diego’s and Klaus’ attention and sign for them to prepare to attack, as planned; and then, on the count of three, Five and Ben get into their positions, too.

The exact moment his brother jumps into a hue of lightning-blue to re-appear in front of their sister, Ben lets the Horrors rip out from his abdomen.

_He lets them out._

_He lets them be free._

_He lets them feed off of violence and rage._

Several gunshots ring through the air, resonating through the tentacles and making his limbs throb with blinding numbness. Ben’s vision clouds over with black spots, colors around him seemingly intensifying until it all turns into a mush of shades of red. Sound is only noise, darkness turns bright; when Ben breathes in, he feels he is gasping for nothing, as if he were underwater.

The eldritch monsters are all around him, spreading across the hall, stretching and winding now that they finally have space to move. They are eager to satisfy their hunger.

“Not my siblings”, Ben presses out towards them, “I’m letting you be free. But don’t hurt my siblings.”

Looking at it from any other perspective it seems purely mad to say you believe in the violent beings that tear you apart—but in that moment Ben is with faith. In that moment he sees it with a clarity only he will ever witness.

“You can… kill the rest. Still your hunger”, he calls—or maybe only mouths with his thinning voice.

For a moment silence pounds through his heart.

“You can kill me.”

It is then that Ben accepts he’ll finally find the answer to what it means to die. What it’s like between life and death. His pupils dilate and muscles tense as the portal expands and expands with no end in sight and bursts apart at the seams. Inside turns outside; everything ever beneath mist and foaming tides emerges out into the open.

His body hurts. Very much so. There’s something dark and thick and colorless oozing out from his belly and nose and his veins stand bright like river-linings against his ghostly skin. Ben wonders if this will end comparable to a supernova—a snobbish try of romanticizing this beginning and end, he knows—as the caging his bones provided for The Horrors drifts further apart, inch by inch.

 _Only a bit left,_ he thinks _. Only a bit left and they’ll tear me in two._ _Only a bit left and I’ll reach the bottom of the ocean._

He can follow himself zoning in and out.

All these memories—all this time spent. Lessons and training and sneaking out. Speaking out on the fire-escape, in front of Griddy’s, in their library. On the floor, on the table.

Never knowing who you are but always knowing what is within you. Always knowing your fate.

But only now not denying it.

With a grunt and the sound of cracking bones, Ben hits the floor. A beautiful epiphany—pirouetting from moment to moment. He does not open his eyes, but he can feel and hear the steps of five people shuffling closer. No longer whistling, the tinnitus in his ears subsides.

Finally, the air is no longer thick with brutal wildness—but filled by the pain it caused.

Several people touch him—one stroking his bloodied cheek as another checks his pulse.

“I’m not awake”, Ben coughs up, and it is not really meant as a joke. He pries open his eyes under thick zests of whatever gooey liquids are covering him.

“ _Idiot_ ”, Klaus scolds, tongue swallowed up by a grief-stricken tone, “You stupid, brainless, selfish jerk.”

Ben tries to speak back, but something warm pools out from his mouth. He jolts his head from side to side, eyelids growing heavy.

Allison grabs his hand—she is crying her now inelegantly blotched face off—and forces herself to talk between every sob. “Don’t do this to us. Don’t you dare do this to us. I can’t- Ben, don’t-… Just why would you do that?“

She holds onto his wrist as if it were a bouquet of roses.

Luther, digging his face in his own arm, leans close to him, shoulders trembling. “Please tell us what to do, Ben. Just- just tell us how to help you!” He clenches his fist. “Fuck! Just tell me what to do!”

The others watch in terror and sadness as Number One abandons his ranking as a leader. None of them know how to change what’s happening.

There’s nothing to change, that’s it.

Ben fights to keep his eyes open before delirium and exhaustion can hit him fully. He swallows drily, his throat now parched, but is relieved to find his voice again.

_“I’m sorry, guys.”_

He cannot help but smile.

Five lifts his hand, shaken by anger, but does not go through with any other motion. His reddened eyes focus on Ben’s face. “This wasn’t the plan”, he whimpers, “This wasn’t the goddamn plan!”

Ben bites his lip, tears slipping down his face, but barely felt by him. “Yes, it was. That was the plan all along.”

Diego shakes his head, getting closer to Ben’s face on all four, not caring for the puddle of blood he is wading through. “N-n-no. This- this isn’t how it’s meant to go!” He looks through the room in hectic twitching and then stares back at Ben. “Fuck, man. Y-you can’t do this!”

Allison scrambles back a bit, hair messily hanging into her frame. “We need to get Dad!”

Luther nods. “ _Shit_ , yes. Dad and Pogo are outside.”

Ben exhales shakily, feeling for Klaus, who is the closest. He grips onto his elbow. “It’s no use, anyway.”

“They’ve both stitched us up before”, Five growls, “Us doing CPR won’t help, but they- they can do _something_. Just anything!”

“Or I carry you to the van”, Luther suggests, awfully quiet, “And at home you can heal in the infirmary. With Mom.”

 _Mom_ , Ben muses. He hopes he isn’t disappointing her. Or Vanya.

God, he wishes he could say goodbye now.

“I’m falling asleep” Ben strains himself. He takes one hand and puts it on his stomach—soothed as for the first time in his life he feels no rumbling, no raving, no reeling. His eyelids are drooping down. “Stay while I fall asleep, please.”

“No- no, you’re confused”, Diego huffs. He wipes at his face.

“I was. I was for so long.”

The lights above on the endless ceiling appear to flicker. Stars in the sky awaiting their own supernova.

“Five! Jump and get Dad!”, Allison calls desperately.

“I’ll carry him!”, Luther cries.

“No, don’t move him.”, Five hisses.

Diego sneers at them. “Just get Pogo!”

_“Guys!”_

Klaus is covering his ears, breathing too quickly as he hunches over. “We need to stop fighting and just stay, okay?” As all siblings turn to him, disheartened and unwilling, he flops onto his back. Ben can feel warmth radiating from him as he half-lay next to him on the floor. “Let’s just stay a bit.”

That moment, with an inexplicable, odd sense of peace in the air, their tears run with ease and not hopelessness. One by one, all the other Hargreeves siblings lay down. Ben grins inwardly, no longer able to get his face to do so.

He imagines they are only dozing off in a field, making a bed of a blooming meadow.

The tiles beneath him are only cool, embracing earth and that blood spreading around is only a fuzzy sensation of harmony.

With the last bits of strength, he can find in himself, Ben moves his lips.

“ _I’m not leaving you_ ”, he says calmly, _“I’m not leaving_.”

Very softly, he nudges someone, not even being able to tell who.

_“I love you all. Remember me for more than this, okay?”_

Their eyes are on him, he knows, with both pain and sweet wonder.

Ben dies—but he is finally whole.

Ben dies—and the lights go on.

Ben dies.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics by the following artists:  
> Title by Joanna Newsom.  
> First quote by Sleeping at Last.  
> M.S - Moses Sumney // S.L. - Sean Lennon // NMH. - Neutral Milk Hotel // SAL. - Sleeping at Last // F.F. Fleet Foxes // J.N. - Joanna Newsom // T.S. - The Smiths
> 
> Thank you for reading and I wish you a pleasant day :)


End file.
